


Meet Cute

by Benga



Category: The Dresden Files - All Media Types, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Meet-Cute, Pre-Series, given the title, nothin' but unrepentant fluff, obviously, ok also a mild bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4968274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benga/pseuds/Benga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only a handful of weeks had passed since Margaret LeFay broke free from the White Court's grasp. It had been a long time coming, but even with the Ways on her side, her freedom remained tenuous at best. Margaret's plans for the immediate future included something along the lines of 'do not die; survive long enough to fix what has been broken.' </p><p>Margaret's plans for the immediate future did not include anything along the lines of Malcolm Dresden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meet Cute

No one ever really looks at other people when they’re in public, Margaret thought. Not when they have something to do, or somewhere to be. The bench she’d chosen was set against the wall of the train station, out of the modest crowd at the edge of the platform. Nobody had spared her so much as a glance since her arrival.

She looked up at the large clock hanging over the exit, impatient. The train was ten minutes late already.

The town had perhaps ten thousand residents and although she’d only arrived five days ago, Margaret LeFay was more than ready to be moving on to her next stop. Wherever that might be. It wasn’t that she was overly concerned about being found, she told herself, though admittedly there was a low level of anxiety that was probably there to stay. It had been less than two months since she’d broken ties with Lord Raith and his- her- associates. Without their protection, all of her old “friends” had come out of the woodwork and after her head. The White Council, the vampire Courts, the Circle…

She looked away from the clock and back to the tracks in front of her. It didn’t matter. She was smart, and quick, and so very motivated. She could evade their pursuit. She had to. She couldn’t give up, not until-

_Until what? Not all mistakes can be corrected, Maggie. What will you do, tell McCoy of your many errors and beg his help? He can’t stop this, either._

It didn’t matter. He knew what she’d done, and she’d burned that bridge long ago anyway.

_What’s done is done. You can only move forward, now. Failure is not an option._

“Failure is always an option,” she muttered under her breath.

A bell rang, interrupting her thoughts. The people on the platform milled about, gathering their bags as the train pulled in. Time to get moving.

 

\---------------

 

The train already held a number of passengers from earlier stops, effectively ending any hope of finding an empty cabin for the ten hour ride. Margaret tried not to let her irritation show as she waited to board. She had reconsidered her decision not to travel by the Ways a dozen times that morning alone, but each of the past three times she’d used the Nevernever she’d had closer and closer calls. Last week she very nearly walked into a squad of Red Court vampires. Had she not been veiled and downwind, they would have found her. She had full confidence she could have taken them, but it might have alerted interested parties as to her whereabouts.

No, the Ways were an unacceptable risk for now.

Even if that meant spending ten hours to travel less than four hundred miles, surrounded by shrieking children and unnecessary chatter.

She reached the front of the line and smiled at the boarding attendant, perfectly pleasant and forgettable.

Onboard, Margaret walked down the center aisle, looking through the compartment windows for company who looked least likely to make her jump out of the window in the first half hour. She had little luck- colicky infants, excited children with exhausted parents, a group of young men who weren’t quite three sheets to the wind, but seemed enthusiastically determined to drink themselves there as quickly as possible.

She stopped at the last cabin and considered its single occupant.

He was hunched over, entirely focused on something he was fiddling with in his lap.  He didn’t seem to notice her standing by the door. His posture made it hard to tell, but Margaret suspected he would be taller than she was, if only he held himself more like a person and less like a partially collapsed folding chair.

She rapped on the window and the man jumped in his seat, looking around the room. Margaret suppressed a smile as he belatedly realized the noise had been a person at the door. She pulled it open and stepped inside.

“Are these seats taken?” she asked.

He stared at her for a second before registering her words and smiling.

“One of them is now,” he said.

She stowed her minimal luggage and moved to the seat furthest from his, hoping he picked up on her desire to not be bothered. He had already turned his attention back to whatever he held, however.

She began to sit but immediately jolted back up and looked down at the seat. On it lay a small and rather threadbare toy rabbit.

“Is this yours?”

He lifted his head again, cheeks flushing pink when he saw what she pointed to.

“Oh! That’s, uh, yes. That’s mine.”

She gave him an even look.

“It’s occupational,” he said, a shade defensive.

She raised an eyebrow, and his blush deepened from pink to red.

“It’s- I mean, it, that’s for...” He fumbled for a few seconds before giving up. “I’ll... I’ll just take that.”

She handed it to him with a straight face, and he carefully placed it in the bag by his side. Without another word, he bent down to continue working on whatever small thing he held on his lap, but Margaret could see his ears were still adorably red.

Margaret blinked. Adorable?

_Well. He is, a little._

The train’s whistle blew, and Margaret settled in for the ride.

 

\---------------

 

The journey was uneventful, for the most part. Margaret tried to spend her time planning the next set of safe houses she would use once the Ways were clear again, but as the hours dragged on she found herself increasingly distracted by the quiet man across from her.

He kept to himself, tinkering for a while with one trinket before placing it back in the bag and retrieving another little thing to work on. He was fairly deft at keeping them out of clear sight, except for half an hour when he pulled out a large set of collapsible metal poles to clean.

_What in all god’s names is that even for?_

After several hours, she gave up on trying to plan. There were too many unknown variables, making any attempt at strategizing essentially an exercise in anxiety. Besides, she was genuinely confused by what this man was doing, and took that as a personal challenge to figure it out.

Margaret would have suspected he was ignoring her completely, except that his ears and the back of his neck spontaneously flushed any time she shifted in her seat.

Still, all was quiet until shortly before they arrived at their destination.

There was no warning. One moment they were both sitting still, and the next there was a small, sharp _twang_ and the cabin was filled with an explosion of flying cards.

Margaret hadn’t even realized she was leaning forward until that moment, as they both jumped back in their seats in synchronized shock. Of course, Margaret suspected she was the only one whose surprise had nearly set the other person on fire.

They watched in stunned silence as the last of the cards fluttered to the floor.

After a pause, the man said, “Hmm. I really thought I’d gotten that problem sorted out.” He scrunched up his nose, looking down at the metal contraption in his hand, then shrugged and began picking up the cards around his feet. “I guess not. Oops. I’m, ah, really sorry, but would you mind...?”

Picking up the cards around her, Margaret asked, “Is this occupational, too?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said, grinning. “What can I say? I live a life of danger and intrigue.”

“I couldn’t possibly imagine what that’s like,” she said dryly. “And exactly what line of work did you say you were in?”

“Ah, well,” he said, straightening his back with exaggerated dignity and extending one arm in a flourish. “I am... a magician!”

She stared at him. “A magician.”

“Indeed,” he said grandly, not lowering his arm. She kept staring, and he began to look a bit nervous. “You know, magic? Card tricks and wands, rabbits in hats?”

“You’re a magician. You have a magic wand, and do magic.”

“Yes?” he said cautiously. “Is that- are you alright?”

Margaret abandoned her struggle to maintain a serious expression and threw her head back, laughing uncontrollably.  

He looked at her with good-natured bemusement until her laughter wound down to silently shaking shoulders and occasional giggles.

“Oh, god,” she said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. Of all possible things, a pretend sorcerer. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“No, no,” he said, waving away her apology. “It’s not that I’ve never been laughed out of a room or anything, it’s just that it usually happens _after_ I perform, not before.”

“Have a lot of trouble performing, do you?" Margaret asked innocently.

His blush came back in full force, and his open mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. He swallowed and said, “I. Um. Malcolm. Is my name. Malcolm Dresden.”

_Oh, dear._

She knew she shouldn’t tease him, but this was more fun than she’d had in months. She held out her hand, and said, “Charmed, I’m sure.”

 

\---------------

 

It was dark outside when Margaret stepped off the train in Huntington, yet another stop in a growing list of tiny towns she wished she’d never had to have slept in. The train ride had been more enjoyable than she'd expected; it had been some time since she'd spoken with someone who didn't know who she was, who didn't treat her like a threat or a tool. The man, Malcolm, had been sweet. Far too young for her, of course, but all the same. It had been... nice.

A magician. Good grief.

She shouldered her bag with a snort and started walking towards the small hotel adjacent to the rail station.

“Wait! Miss Margaret!”

Margaret turned. “Mr. Dresden. I didn’t know this was your stop.”

“Mixed train, they’re offloading for a bit,” he called, jogging over. “Anyway, I'm starving, and I'm pretty sure they give the cattle better cars than they give the rest of us. I'd rather sleep in a bed and catch the morning train." They watched as men hauled crates onto and off of the train. "First time riding a branch line?"

"Mmm." She smiled, remembering how she'd snuck into town to hear the bells ring when the Pacific Railroad was completed. Father had not been pleased. "It's been a while."

He seemed nervous, though he was trying to hide it.

After a moment he nodded and, without facing her, said, “They say the diner up the road does the best pie in the state, if you wanted to join me?"

"Pardon?"

He took a deep breath and asked, “Would you like to have dinner with me? Tonight, over there?”

"Why?”

He looked slightly thrown by this question, and she tried again. “I mean, why me?"

"Because I liked talking with you and, well, I wanted to keep doing it, if you were game?" She didn't look away, fixing her gaze between his eyes. "Because I like you?"

"No, you don't."

"Well," he said, drawing out the word, "while it is certainly possible that you don't like me, which would be fine and your prerogative, I'm fairly sure that I do like you."

"No," Margaret said, frustrated. “You like the person you think I am. You don't know me."

"Who says you need to know someone to like them?" Malcolm said, half laughingly and half serious. "I liked the guy who sold me my ticket this morning, and I didn't even get his name."

"That seems quite naive," she said.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging. "But it takes years to really know somebody. If I waited to like a person until after I already knew them, I'd never get the chance to like anybody. I like you. I want to get to know you, too."

"You’re a nice fellow," Margaret said. Perhaps, if the situation had been different... “But no, thank you."

His face fell, but he kept his smile and didn't press the issue. "Alright. Well, then. It was good to meet you, still. Have a safe journey, Miss Margaret."

He started to walk away, but called back, "I wasn't kidding about the diner, though. That pie’s worth trying, it's delicious."

Margaret watched him leave, and tried to convince herself she was relieved he'd dropped his offer so easily.

_Certainly. Disappointment and relief are so very similar, after all._

 

\---------------

 

Margaret closed her eyes and cleared her mind.

She sat cross-legged on the cheap hotel bed she gotten for the night, a sheaf of hand-drawn maps of the Ways spread in front of her. From here, the closest sanctuary...

_A small clearing of yellow grass, with warm light and a lazy breeze-_

Too much Summer.

_A dark grey sky arching over sharp, shining stones-_

Unlikely.

_A kind smile under brown eyes filled with laughter-_

She cursed under her breath. From the bathroom came a quiet, electric “pop”, followed by silence and the faint smell of melted plastic. Margaret inhaled slowly, tamping down her irritation. After a beat, she slowly released her breath, opening one eye to glance towards the source of the odor.

“What are the chances that isn’t the sign of something I’ll have to pay for?” she asked the empty room. It didn’t answer.

She began again. At first, there was nothing; then-

_Cool water lapping on dark sand, as black-bodied sirens drifted-_

Mmm. Probably a bad idea.

_Blazing, endless sand studded with jutting crystal spears-_

Margaret frowned. That Way wasn’t even near here, she knew it.

_Soft hands that-_

“Aurgh!” Margaret cried, throwing up her hands in annoyance. “You didn’t even feel his hands, you- silly- gah!”

She tried again, and again, with no better results. Her mind kept wandering back to the train ride, to Malcolm’s fabricated stories of past shows and the goofy smile he got whenever he succeeded in making her laugh out loud.

“Hell’s bells,” she muttered. “It has not been that long since you’ve had a dance in the sheets.” A helpful voice in the back of her mind pipped up that, no, in fact, it had been that long, and while they were on the subject...

“You’re hopeless,” she told herself sternly.

Getting up gingerly and wincing at the stiffness in her knees, she sighed. There was no chance she could concentrate enough to complete this task, not right now.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the late hour and her declined dinner invitation.

“Food it is,” she said. “One hopes the diner serves more than just pie.”

_And perhaps he might be around. It’s not a large restaurant; you could be forgiven for stopping to say hello. It would be rude not to, yes?_

“I am ignoring you,” she informed the voice. “I am not listening. You are not being useful, so I am not listening.”

_Liar._

 

\---------------

 

The door bell chimed with what felt like an unnecessary amount of cheer as Margaret pushed her way into the diner, and she fought off the urge to tell it to shut up.

It was well past dinner time, but there were still a handful of people lingering. Margaret couldn’t remember ever having seen a completely empty all-night diner; something about the spirit of place demanded the presence of at least a few patrons at any hour.

She recognized a number of faces, people she’d seen disembarking with her and waiting in the hotel lobby for rooms. The group of drunk young men from the train stood by the door, getting ready to leave. Judging by the sound of their raucous laughter, they hadn’t done much sobering up in the past few hours.

As expected (or possibly feared; certainly not hoped for), Malcolm sat at the bar. He glanced up at the ringing of the bell, his tongue sticking out as he froze in the middle of pulling a funny face at the toddler a few seats down from him. His expression snapped back to vaguely guilty neutrality, like he’d been caught misbehaving, before he smiled and gave her a little half-wave. Margaret met his eyes, unthinkingly- they really were quite brown, hardly an exciting color and definitely not worth any sudden jump in her heart rate- long enough to feel the undercurrent of a soulgaze. She jerked her eyes away, surprised at her own carelessness.

_What are you doing, Maggie? Do you even know?_

She nodded at the magician but kept her eyes averted as she walked past the bar to an empty booth at the far end of the diner. It would have been a more dramatic dismissal, she thought, had the diner been larger. As it was, it only granted her an additional fifteen feet or so of distance from him.

She could feel him watching her, brows gently creased, as she walked by. He had to have felt the pull of the incipient gaze, but couldn’t have known what the peculiar sensation was or what it meant.

The waitress came and went, taking her order and leaving a cup of hot tea. The toddler at the bar clapped its hands excitedly, trying to reclaim Malcolm’s attention. Obligingly, he gave it, with only a few glances back in her direction.

_Which you only noticed because you’re still watching him._

Margaret slowly stirred her tea, trying to sort through the confusion in her head. This was foolish. And a terrible idea. There were _reasons_.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a peaceful night’s rest.

The real issue was that she didn’t want sex. Or rather, sex itself wasn’t the problem. If that was all she wanted from him, then this whole affair would be easily solved. She doubted he’d say no. The real issue was that she wanted to talk with him, to make him laugh like he made her laugh, to fall asleep with him beside her.

She pushed her tea away from her and dropped her head onto the table. This was not good. Coming here was a bad idea.

“Um, ma’am?”

Margaret sat upright with a start. The waitress had returned. “Did you still want your food?”

Margaret stared at her, the server looking back with uncertainty and a bit of concern. “Or I could come back later?”

“No. No, I was only thinking.” Margaret stood. “Could I have the meal to go?”

The waitress smiled, relieved to be on more solid conversational ground. “Sure thing, ma’am.”

She followed her back up to the counter to pay, suppressing the bizarre impulse to put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder as she passed him.

_Oh gods, you’ve got it bad._

Meal in hand, she left the diner in a hurry. It was a short and straight walk back to the hotel; honestly, it wasn’t as though there was much to the town aside from the cluster of buildings around the train stop. Margaret was so wrapped in her own thoughts that she didn’t sense anything amiss until it was too late.

Shadows moved in an alley opening onto the sidewalk in front of her. A car engine started, and she heard footsteps approaching from behind. She was surrounded.

Margaret’s heart plummeted. They couldn’t find her, not yet!

Her mind raced. There’d been no foul aura creeping across her skin. Were they dampening their own magic, shielding themselves from her attention and that of any potential witnesses? Or simply using mortal goons to do their dirty work?

A man in a dark leather jacket stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk, a wide grin on his face. It did not reach his eyes.

He reeked of whiskey, and as she looked at the other men on the sidewalk behind her she realized what was happening. It was the drunks from the train. Relief and fury warred in her chest.

“What do you want?” she asked the man coldly.

“Nothin’ too much, pretty girl,” he said, blatantly leering. “Nothin’ but a li’l fun.”

“Who sent you?” she demanded. Relief was growing, but she needed to make sure.

His face twisted with anger born of inebriated confusion. “Wha’? Jus’ get in the car, bitch!”

She nearly laughed.

They hadn’t found her. These were not supernatural assassins or brainwashed followers, just run-of-the-mill slime with enough muscle to believe they could do what they wished. Her relief that she had not been discovered was great, but it was nothing compared with her rage.

Leather Jacket, the apparent leader of the group stepped towards her. “You listenin’ to me, bitch? I said get in the car!”

She turned to look at him squarely. Something in her expression made doubt flash across the man’s flushed and sweaty face.

“You have made a grievous error, gentlemen,” she said, polite smile entirely at odds with the tone of her words. Before she could say anything else, however, a familiar voice shouted, “Hey! Leave her alone!”

_Oh, for heaven’s sake. Is he really...?_

She glanced back at the diner and, yes, Malcolm was sprinting down the road towards them. He maintained enough presence of mind, apparently, to skid to a halt short of the group and not attempt to tackle anybody or some such lunacy. The smallest of them must have outweighed him by eighty pounds.

“You want somethin’, punk?” asked one of the men, a bearded giant.

“Me and the lady were just havin’ a talk,” said Leather Jacket. “Keep walkin’, buddy.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Malcolm. The resolve in his words was undermined by the slight tremors in his hands, balled at his sides.

“Look, dipshit,” said the man with the beard, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a knife.

It was a mistake.

Margaret hissed under her breath, reaching out with a snare of force to wrap around the neck of the man in the leather jacket and yank him in a wide arc around her body. He collided with the bearded man and kept going, slamming them both into the brick way with bone-shattering force. They fell limply onto the sidewalk.

“That is enough,” she snarled.

The group had turned to look at Malcolm upon his arrival, but all eyes were back on her, staring in shocked amazement. One of the men on the ground moaned.

“Get out of my sight. Take these pigs with you.”

Nobody moved for a moment. One man took a cautious step forward to grab the arm of his unconscious leader. Margaret bared her teeth, and the man blanched. He stumbled backwards, dragging the other man with him. His movement galvanized the rest of the group, who collected their fallen friends and hastily shoved them into the waiting car before peeling out.

She watched until it was clear they had no intention of coming back, then whipped around to glare at Malcolm.

He hadn’t moved, still staring at her in awe.

“Wow,” he said.

“What,” she said, possibly still snarling a little, “In the name of all gods. Was that.”

“Uh,” he said.

“What were you thinking?” she yelled. “Really, what could you possibly have been thinking?”

“I was-”

“What the hell were you doing? Were you trying to get stabbed?”

“No!”

“That was a rhetorical question,” she hissed at him, “but if you felt the need to answer it then _maybe it shouldn’t have been_!” She had tried to lower her voice, but by the end of the sentence she was shouting again.

“I saw what they were... what they were trying to do.” He swallowed. “I had to do something.”

“So, what, you decided to tackle a drunk who outweighs you by six stone?”

“No,” he said, frowning slightly. “Why, do you think I should have?”

“ _NO_!” she screamed.

She was breathing heavily, and Malcolm was still pale and shaking subtly. They stared each other.

“I told Maureen to call the police before I left the diner?” he offered.

“Ah, well, Maureen. That makes everything alright, then,” she said.

“She’s, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Waitress.”

Silence. There was a conspicuous lack of police sirens in the quiet night air.

“I wonder if this place even has a police department?” he asked.

Margaret massaged the bridge of her nose.

“I need sleep.” And a drink. And something to repeatedly punch. She glanced over at Malcolm, who was looking down the street for the theoretically approaching cavalry. It was probably lucky for those inbred cowards that this gangly idiot had intervened. Lucky for her, too, she reminded herself. She didn’t need the unwanted attention that her anger could have attracted.

She bent down to pick up her bag of food, which had been dropped and knocked over at some point during the ruckus. Everything was salvageable except the her dessert, whose box had been kicked into the street and spilled its contents.

“Alas,” Malcolm said solemnly, picked up the sadly empty box.

“A small price,” she replied. Damn jackals, she thought. She’d been looking forward to that pie.

As she straightened up, he asked, “Do you mind if I walk with you? To the hotel, I mean.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Would this offer happened to be for the same reason that you were watching me when I first left the diner?”

He was still too shaken to properly blush, but his vascular system did the best it could. “What do you mean?”

“How else could you have ever-so-valiantly run to my rescue?” she asked, a sweet smile barely covering the steel edge in her voice.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, awkwardly drawing out the words. “I went outside the diner to watch you walk back. Because I wanted to make sure you got there okay. Which it turns out wasn’t entirely unreasonable, all things considered! But, but, but!” he said, raising his hands in either defense or supplication as she took a breath to start yelling again. “I’m not asking this because I think you can’t walk back alone! Believe me! Of the two of us, I am not the one who just did some kind of mystical martial arts thing.” He laughed. “Let’s be honest. You’re not the one who would benefit from us walking together, protection-wise.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, it seemed to Margaret that the walk to the hotel was over as soon as it had begun. She found herself wishing the town was not as small as it was. Malcolm had somehow gotten them onto the topic of their favorite places to visit during the winter, and some part of her had badly, badly wanted to tell him about her travels through the actual heart of Winter, about its sparkling, frozen mountains and its exquisitely beautiful and deadly inhabitants.

Too soon, they reached the hotel. She continued to tell him about a little cabin she and her father had visited in the White Mountains as she entered the building and headed up the stairs, compelling him to continue walking with her or else rudely leave the conversation while she was still speaking. Judging by the look on his face, he did not at all mind having an excuse to keep walking with her until she reached her room.

_Alright then, Maggie. You’ve drawn this out long enough, haven’t you?_

He held her food for her as she unlocked and opened her hotel room.

“Well, Mr. Dresden,” she said.

“Malcolm,” he interjected. “Just once?”

Margaret smiled, and felt her cheeks grow warm. “Malcolm. Thank you for walking with me.”

He smiled back, like hearing her say his name was some kind of gift. He held up the bag for her, and as their hands brushed, some treacherous part of her mind made her linger there, not taking it from him but instead just standing there, holding hands around the handle of a cheap plastic bag.

She wanted to run away.

She wanted to ask him in.

“It was a memorable day, Miss Margaret,” he said softly. “I’m quite sure I won’t be able to forget you.” With that, he bent forward, brushing his lips over the back of her hand before letting go. He nodded at her, still smiling, and walked away.

Margaret stepped back into her room and set down the bag. She leaned back against the closed door and brought her tingling hand up to rest against her lips. She stood in the dark of the unlit room, silent and unmoving. The enormity of the past several weeks hit her all at once, and she squeezed her eyes closed tight, trying to concentrate on the memory of unfamiliar warmth under her hand and not the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

She slid down the door until she sat hunched against it on the floor, shoulders shaking.

_You’re fine. You are fine._

It was as though some floodgate previously unacknowledged had failed, letting loose everything it had held back in one torrential outpouring. It was too much, it was all far too much, crashing down like a physical weight heavy enough to crush her, like the wave of sadness and fear and guilt, guilt, guilt was what had driven her to the ground with a palpable force. Her naivety, her arrogance, her lapses in judgement great enough to set the world on fire. She felt hollow inside, like everything soft and vital had been scrapped out until all that remained was hard and unyielding and able to keep moving forward without looking back.

_Stop crying. Open your eyes, you are fine._

She had to keep moving. She knew it. She knew she could not stay here with him, with Malcolm, but she could still feel his hand under hers, and she also knew that if she opened the door he would be there. She knew she could tell him everything and he would hold her and say something that would would make it all more bearable, more manageable, and she would no longer feel as though she were out of control and hurtling forwards towards something terrible and final.

She knew she was lying to herself. She knew he was not outside her door.

She knew she had to leave.

_You are not acting like yourself, Maggie. Get yourself together and get moving._

Sure, she thought bitterly, because pretending to be someone else while running away is so much more authentic. She had felt more like herself tonight than she had in a long time.

_Tonight should not have happened as it did. You walked blindly into a situation you could have easily avoided, because you were too busy thinking about a man who you will never see again._

But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? She hadn’t been distracted because she liked Malcolm, so much as she had been distracted by the mental gymnastics required to ignore her emotions and convince herself that she was not, in fact, feeling any.

_This is not about you. You were a fool and you royally screwed over the world, and now you have a duty to fix what you have broken._

By doing what, running until she got sloppy or the other side got lucky? This was not a winning strategy, having no plan except to keep moving and stay one step ahead of her pursuers until something else happened. She had been stupid, but fleeing with no goal or destination in mind was equally idiotic. It wouldn’t help anyone if she got herself killed.

_What do you want, Maggie? Staying here will only kill you faster, and you’ll drag down anyone near you._

What did she want?

“I want to be free of this,” she whispered.

She had no intention of staying in Huntington, but she was done running. Her thoughts sprang to Malcolm’s face before she pulled herself up short.

_Careful now. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?_

Could she even do this? Theoretically, yes, she was reasonably certain she could, but would it be right? Anyone she associated with on even a superficial level could be targeted. 

_Is it more unfair for him to be pulled into a dangerous situation without a feasible exit, or for these choices to be made without his knowledge or input?_

He was so young, and totally unaware of the supernatural world. There could be no way for him to really know the weight of such a decision. What kind of choice would that even be?

_His. It would be his choice._

Margaret exhaled sharply through her nose. It didn’t really matter. At this point these questions were purely academic. That ship had set sail when she had let him walk away. By morning, he would be gone down the tracks to some new place. They would not meet again.

Perhaps that was for the best.

She scarcely wanted to admit it to herself, but she liked him. She liked him more than she’d liked anybody in quite a while. Maybe it would have worn off and he would have turned out to be a different person once she’d spent some time with him, but she doubted it. Something about him made her think that he could pull off insincerity and manipulation about as well as a puppy could perform ballet. She didn't want to drag him into a world that would kill him without a second thought.

_And would that feeling change, if he wanted it too? If he wanted to be with you?_

“Stop that,” she told herself crossly. “It is not the world’s greatest tragedy to not see this man again. I didn’t even learn anything about him past his name.” And the fact that he blushes at the drop of a hat, and makes terrible puns, and loves the snow but doesn’t like cold feet.

“You know, you are being neither helpful nor nice right now,” she informed her brain. He absolutely adores children, her brain added. “Oh my dear god, please stop thinking about this.”

_Has that request worked for anyone, ever? Because it seems doubtful._

She ate her dinner alone, distracting herself with fleshing out her new plans to keep her mind off pining for things it could not have. Mechanically she went through her evening routines, and slipped off into a fitful and uneasy night of sleep.

 

\---------------

 

Predawn light filtered into the hotel room as Margaret finished preparing her departure. Soon it would be time to leave this place, and she still had not come to a decision on which Way to take to her next stop.  

She moved her bags up against the hotel door and placed the room’s ceramic ashtray on top of the flimsy dresser, then plucked a hair from her head. She’d had plenty of occasion to practice this magic in the past few weeks. Holding the hair over the center of the ashtray, she cast the spell which would seek out the connection between it and any other traces of her presence left within the confines of the spell’s area. Once she felt the magic stabilize, she whispered, “ _Pupkai_.” The hair vanished in a flash of heat, leaving behind a wisp of acrid smoke and taking with it anything left in the room which might have been used to trace her.

She gathered her bags and felt a fleeting pang of something dull and aching as she gave the room one final look-over. Stripped of even her meager belongings, the space was painfully impersonal. She didn’t want to spend the remainder of her life sleeping alone in empty, lifeless hotel rooms.

She opened the door to leave and nearly tripped on the small package which had been left outside of her door. It was little clamshell box with a note on top. Carefully, she picked it up and read,

 

_Dear Miss Margaret,_

_I’m sorry for everything that happened last night. I doubt it will leave you with overwhelmingly happy memories of your trip, wherever your destination may be, but I am still glad I got the chance to meet you. You are a remarkable lady. Take care, and stay safe. (Though, for some reason, I feel like you’re pretty good at that. Taking care of things, I mean.)_

_Happy travels,_

_Malcolm Dresden_

 

Curious, she picked up the box and popped open its lid.

Inside was a slice of pie, still warm.

Margaret’s chest tightened. She stood in the doorway, empty room behind her and a blank hallway wall in front, and decided.

 

\---------------

 

The morning air was crisp, and Malcolm breathed it in deeply. Wispy clouds trailed across the dawn sky, already dissipating under the growing light of day. It was shaping up to be a glorious day, he thought. A day to look forward to.

And yet.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the events of the previous night.

A life on the road offered endless opportunities for new stories, but for some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that he would still be thinking of last night many years down the line.

Drifting deep in his own thoughts, he didn’t even notice his company until she spoke.

“Lovely morning, don’t you think?”

He turned smile at his new company, and-

She was there. There she was, standing. There.

“I think it will be, if the weather holds,” his mouth replied, fully on autopilot as the cognitive centers of his brain utterly failed to change gears between daydreams and reality. He knew he was staring.

“May I join you?” Margaret asked.

“Please,” he said, and to his ears the word sounded too truthfully like the sincere request it was.

She smiled at him, though, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here this morning,” he said, aiming for casual. _You said yesterday that this was your final destination?_ “Heading out again so soon?”

“I think I had my fill of the good town’s hospitality last night,” she said, lips quirking up on one side. She looked over at him. “My itinerary is unexpectedly open.”

His train of thought, which had recovered admirably from its initial stumble derailed entirely into a loud shock of hope and doubt and nervousness. _Do it._ “Well,” he started, then stopped as he tried to strangle more words out of the tangled mess of his brain, _do it just do it, what could go wr- no, don’t even think that, why would you think that, just-_ “I heard there’s going to be a magic show at the senior center in Logansport tonight?”

Her eyes twinkled. “A magic show at the senior center? Well, then. Do you think I’d know anyone at the show?”

“I think you could probably find someone to entertain you, if you went.”

She hummed, looking out past the tracks to the rising sun. “I think I’d like that, Mr. Dresden.” She smiled, and amended herself. “Malcolm.”

The station bell rang, and the conductor shouted the all-clear to board. Margaret offered him her hand.

“I think I might like that quite a lot.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My headcanon is that Margaret used Greek as her language base for spells- 'pupkai' coming from 'πυρκαγιά' for 'fire'.
> 
> (Also, you can find me at tumblr [here](http://the-prettiest-octopus.tumblr.com) , if you are so inclined.)


End file.
